{this moment} – A Friday ritual from SouleMama. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you’re inspired to do the same, leave a link to your ‘moment’ in the comments for all to find and see.
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I admire people who can “do” impromptu, whether acting, singing, joke telling, or speeching. For me to agree to do any of those things I would require ample amount of time to prepare. (And even then, you probably only have a hope of convincing me to speak publicly.) Thinking on my feet is not one of my stronger qualities.
In the kitchen, however, I am much more adept at improvising. I love the magic of off-the-cuff meals– when disparate ingredients come together into a delicious punchline of a dinner.
That’s what happened this past lunchtime. I gathered together what sounded good: lettuce with the crispness of fall morning air, golden raisins the color of its afternoon light, and toasted almonds smelling of its evening fire. Toothsome pears and leftover pear brandy cream sauce completed the cast.
Why are cats and babies such natural yogis?
{this moment} – A Friday ritual from SouleMama. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you’re inspired to do the same, leave a link to your ‘moment’ in the comments for all to find and see.
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There is a time for everything.
A time for persevering
and a time for idleness.
A time for cool baths
and a time for warm towels.
A time for naps
and a time for… er… more naps.
A time for sun
and a time for shade.
There is a time for fire
and a time for ice.
A season for every purpose under heaven.
Even if that season is endless summer.
As I’ve previously waxed lyrical about, sangria is my favorite alcoholic beverage for purely sentimental reasons. Part of my attraction to it, I think, is that it’s communal. Sangria has a lot more in common with punch than it does with the solitary bottle of beer or made-to-order cocktail. Sangria is meant to be shared.
As the intense heat of summer fades and the outdoors becomes livable again, the garden seems a perfect place to linger over a pitcher of sangria. There is something… celebratory about it, but without ostentation. Perhaps it’s the bright fruit floating in a “wine dark sea.”
Sangria is also the perfect beverage for late summer as it can use up all the flotsam and jetsam of fruit hanging about. You know, that peach over there on the counter that’s bruised in a few places. That apple in the fridge that isn’t as crisp as it used to be. Those berries that got a little squished on the way home.
What follows is my basic outline for making sangria. I adjust the proportions of cranberry juice and wine based on who I’m making it for. The exact amount and type of fruit varies each time I make it. I’ve yet to use a fruit that just didn’t “fit.” Peaches, apples, berries, pineapple, orange segments– all of these make excellent sangria.
Basic Sangria
1 quart of unsweetened cranberry juice
1 bottle of your favorite red wine
juice from 1 lemon (opt)
juice from 1 orange (opt)
1-2 cups of assorted fruit
Mix together the cranberry juice, wine, lemon, and orange juice in a large pitcher. Cut the fruit into bit sized pieces and add to pitcher. Allow to steep and chill in the fridge for at least 3 hours. Gather together your favorite people and enjoy. Don’t be embarrassed to pick out the wine soaked fruit at the bottom of the glass– it’s the best part!
One of the regrets I have every September is that I never make enough of these pizzas. Even with a family tradition of Friday pizza and movie nights, I can never seem to get enough in. And it’s my fault. I spend the better part of spring and early summer pinning for the First Tomato, inevitably resulting in darn near deification of the first month of harvest. These tomatoes are above such things as flame and heat. They are the pure essence of summer and therefore must be eaten in their pure state, accompanied only by such acolytes as salt and olive oil.
As July meanders into August, I become less of a tomato zealot and start throwing them willy nilly into everything. After all, what dish is not made better by the addition of a tomato slice or two? This is when I seem to remember the Pizza Margherita. Not needing a recipe, making them become a kind of meditation. I am completely in the present moment as I make it. The golden olive oil pooling in the dimples of the crust. The feeling of the knife brushing my knuckles as it carves off the thin slices of tomato. The spicy green smell of snipped basil lingering on my fingertips. The sizzling of the cheese blistering in the oven. Pizza nirvana follows with the first bite.
And then September comes. Tomatoes are once again precious. Only this time I scrimp and save them up to make this pizza one last time, vowing to make better use of Tomato Time next year.
This year a new tomato wondered across my cutting board. The Zapotec. It’s an heirloom variety from the Oaxacan region of Mexico. Much like a Roma tomato, it lacks the copious amounts of jelly/guts. Its lower moisture content means it doesn’t make the pizza soggy. Unlike a Roma, however, it’s pleated shape adds visual appeal to a pizza. And it tastes good. All of which leads me to the conclusion that even though pizza might be Italian, its tomato mate speaks with a Mexican accent.
Pizza Margherita*
1 recipe of your favorite pizza crust
Olive oil
Mozzarella cheese
Zapotec or other low moisture tomatoes (peeled if you wish)
Fresh basil
Preheat oven to 500°. Stretch or roll out your dough. Drizzle olive oil over the top and brush all the way out to the edges. Shred or slice the cheese and lay it out on the pizza. Horizontally slice the tomatoes as thinly as possible. Layer them over the cheese. Slide the pizza into the oven and bake for about 9-12 minutes, until the cheese is pleasantly blistered and the crust is golden brown. While it’s baking, snip the basil into small pieces. If you’re a perfectionist, you can officially chiffonode the basil. If not, cutting it up with scissors works just as well. Once you’ve taken the pizza out of the oven, sprinkle the basil over the top like confetti. Wait about 2 minutes for everything to set, then slice it up and get on your way to pizza nirvana.
*Yes, I realize there are no amounts for the ingredients in the recipe. That’s because it all depends on how big your crust is. I’m trusting that you all are smart enough to eyeball the ingredients.
{this moment} – A Friday ritual from SouleMama. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you’re inspired to do the same, leave a link to your ‘moment’ in the comments for all to find and see.
. . . . . . . .
{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you’re inspired to do the same, leave a link to your ‘moment’ in the comments for all to find and see.
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*The {this moment} tradition was pioneered by Soule Mama
